For Amity
by Barrett's Privateer
Summary: The King, before he was known as such, and the sister who inspired him. Family drama time!
1. Chapter 1: Amity's Choice

_**Disclaimer: Don't own Cars characters, Disney and Pixar do, no money changed hands or was otherwise abused, mistreated or injured in this experiment! I'll return the King to you in one piece, promise! I'm not Chick Hicks!**_

He coiled himself behind the berry bushes, suspension flexing like the legs of a cat about to pounce. His quarry came up the short drive from Kelsey St. with a crunch of tires on gravel. He couldn't see Amity yet, but Strip Weathers knew the throaty reverberations of her 383 B-Block engine from a block away. He was ensconced in the only spot where he knew there was sufficient cover to conceal the high wing that was threatening to tower over his roof with the next growth spurt. At fourteen, young Strip was painted a light silver blue, with a black vinyl roof and a shark nose that was already the subject of much ridicule in the schoolyard and the recipient of many painful bumps on the street. He was close to adult length now, though his frame would take another year or two to add bulk and power. His official "model year", the year that the average age of his new type would reach sixteen years, was stil another two summers away. The Plymouth clan agency hadn't even conceived of a name for them yet, just "B-Body 5-70".

The crunching was louder now. Just around the corner… there was her grille… NOW!

"GRAAAAAH!" Strip sprung from cover, landing on the gravel before a '65 Plymouth Belvedere who rolled back a foot or two with momentary shock before the look of recognition crossed her straight, spare features. "Gotcha!"

Amity Weathers, once over the surprise, stared at her younger brother and shook her front with a lopsided grin, "You'll have to be more creative than that, little brother. You were jumping out of bushes when you were – how old? Five? Give it up already, or find more creative scare tactics."

"Awww, you're no fun at all," Strip scrunched his nose in slight dismay. On him, the expression would, to a human's eyes, be somewhat like a disgusted horse wrinkling its muzzle. He stared back at the light tan Belvedere, noting the temporary race-day colors she was wearing while she competed in the local women's races at the Beller Speedway three miles down the main road. He had to admit she was pretty good in that _for-a-girl_ kind of way, winning maybe one out of three in a good season. The prizes were modest, but they helped in a situation where the family head was now unable to work due to a crippling injury suffered in the line of duty some three years before. Nevertheless, it was a sensitive topic that either of the two knew better than to bring up within earshot of their father, Raymond Weathers, who still wore his basic police colors even with the crests painted out.

"I can't be "fun" when I'm keeping a roof over us and the gas coming in, no matter what Mom and Dad think. The way I'm built, I'm just too plain to marry rich, so they'll just have to get used to the idea of me racing. You, too." Amity proceeded towards the slightly run-down bungalow at the end of the drive.

"Sorry…" Strip tailed her, front low. The one thing about Amity he could never, ever top was her capacity for inspiring guilt, in ten words or less.

"Don't worry about it," Amity leaned over to give Strip a nuzzle as he pulled up beside her in the dooryard. "I'd 've been more shocked if you HADN'T tried to scare me, once again."

"Heh.." the younger Mopar answered with a rueful laugh, "And you wouldn't be "you" if you didn't lecture me on "originality" every time."

They trooped into the kitchen, with its threadbare curtains and cracked tiles. Their mother, a '53 Plymouth coupe, had dinner just about ready. Strip's nose quivered at the smell; his appetite had seemed to multiply exponentially as the growth of his frame attempted to catch up with his engine block. This was not unusual for adolescents of the sort that had come to be known as "muscle cars". Gloria Calder Weathers, wife of Raymond Weathers and mother of four, hardly turned as her eldest daughter and second son filed in. "Well, it's about time," she rolled her eyes over to Amity. "How did it go today?"

"Came in second, after Dora Sanders," the Belvedere girl shrugged, "But still in the money. Fifty dollars is fifty dollars, after all."

"That's still pretty good, Am." Strip nudged his sister encouragingly.

"Well, it's gas money, after all." Gloria finished setting the table. "Just keep it down now, OK? Your father just got back from the doctor and he's not in a good mood."

Strip dared a glance into the darker recesses of the living room, where the shape of a '50 sedan was hunkered before the TV set. These days, Dad could be best described as "unpredictable". His moods could swing from genial to uncontrolled anger in an instant. He hadn't always been that way, just since the rollover three years before, while chasing bank robbers on the Interstate. The Weathers family finances had suffered along with Dad's frame and mind, and only their savings, help from family and the odd bit of prize money from Amity's efforts on the powder puff circuit kept their hoods above water.

About ten seconds later, the bulk in the living room stirred. Raymond Weathers pushed himself off the pallet in front of the TV set and made his way slowly to the kitchen, dragging one rear tire. The evidence of extensive repairs on his fenders and hood was visible even in the dimmer light of the house. The rest of the family, now gathered around the table, went silent as Raymond wedged himself into position between his wife and Amity. Strip was on the other side, with his younger sister, 12-year-old Megan, and 9-year-old brother Randall. After some brief prayers, they reached for slices of oilseed loaf and began a quiet, cautious conversation.

"So what's going on at school tomorrow?" Amity looked over to Strip, who was in the midst of devouring his second helping of oilseed.

"Not a lot, besides the usual." Strip glanced at his father, who was topping off his gas. "We're doing rally in PE. Regular roads, speed limit, boring stuff."

"Don't take it for granted," Amity flipped her antenna for emphasis, "How can you handle yourself at maximum if you don't learn the fundamentals at lower speeds? Remember when you almost flipped over at the gravel pit?"

"Ugh. Don't remind me." Strip still had a fresh memory of his day at the clinic from an abraded fender after that little mishap. His shape might at some point give him an edge over other cars in performance, but the tradeoff was a potential disaster if he found himself with air between his tires and the ground. It was something no one could really teach him how to live with, as no one had ever been "born this way" before.

"Okay. What else?" Amity sat back. "Your term paper all ready for tomorrow?"

"Yeah, I went through it." The boy groaned irritably. "Dunno why Mrs. Lindgren always piles it on at the end of the week. I think she hates me too. Anybody "loud", she hates. Like it's any fault of mine that I got this block?" he tapped his hood with a wiper. The 426 Hemi beneath it was uncommon even among this new emerging type of car. When Strip was nervous or excited and revved up, this engine would make its presence known for several streets over. It did not endear him to his more peace-loving neighbors.

"Just the same, I don't want you scaring half the neighborhood at 3AM any more." Strip's father cut in, his tone raspy and low. "Last night, the Wetmores' vespa started howling and lost his oil because your engine noise scared the scrap outta him. I don't care whose fault you think it was, you are gonna get that under control!" The disabled cruiser added a tire-stomp for emphasis.

"Don't go so hard on him, dear." Gloria leaned over to her husband. "He can't help that he gets nightmares sometimes."

"Will you stop making excuses for him!" Raymond struck out with a front tire, knocking a table leg. "Time he started growing up. I'm tired of paying out the nose every time he runs into something. Self-control, boy, that's what you need to learn!" Raymond's antenna reached over and tapped Strip's nose for emphasis. He shrank back, as much as his length would allow.

"Dad, give him a break." Amity's level voice cut back through the dusty air, "He's worked hard to bring his grades up this year. He made the school racing team. He's come a long way."

"A long way? Like you?" Raymond's attention shifted entirely over to his daughter. "Here you are, scraping by in these penny-ante bump-and-runs when you could be going to steno school and doing something that pays regular."

"It'll get better." Amity looked back at her father, straight in the eyes. Her mouth was set as if in concrete.

"Better? How much is "better?" Raymond demanded, rising on his shocks. For an instant, it looked as if he'd rear onto the table. "Second and third place on the powder-puff circuit the rest of your life? If I were you, young lady, I'd be taking a second look at my priorities."

"My priorities are fine." Amity stated. "As a matter of fact, I have some news for everyone…"

Gloria froze, with only her eyes going between her daughter and her husband. Strip hunkered down.

"Well, don't keep us waiting, by any means." Raymond glowered.

"All right." Amity rose until she was level with her father. "You know Hi-Glo, do you?"

"The wax?"

"Yes. I just met with them today."

"What's that? _Met_ with them? Over what?"

The Belvedere pushed herself away and raised her front. "A sponsor deal, Dad."

"Wait a minute… they don't do small stuff like powder puff…"

"They don't…just pro stock."

For a minute, the senior Weathers sat as if mired to his axles in tar. Then, energy swept over him like a blast wave.

"_Pro stock?_ Racing and competing with men? What the hell are you thinking, Amity?"

"I can do it. And I'm going to."

"Do you know what that means?" Raymond near-shouted at his daughter, "You are giving up any prospect of a normal life! You'll never be street-legal again, and you know Bradley, who's your uncle's friend? He told us the mods hurt like hell when they do it. They say "stock", but in reality, not much is left of the real "you" once it's all done. And if you wash up, you're screwed!" He jabbed his antenna over to his wife, "How can you do this to your mother? How could you say "No" when Clyde Bartlett asked you out last week? The son of a regional head for Dinoco is nothing to just sneeze at."

"I have nothing against Mr. Bartlett," Amity stared at her father with the intensity of a laser. "I just don't feel for him. And as for what Mom thinks, you didn't really ask _her_, did you?"

The ex-cruiser looked over to his wife, who was shifting weight and looking anywhere but at her husband and daughter. "Well, Pearl?"

"Well, I--" the coupe drifted off into silence for a moment. "I've tried, Ray. Chrysler knows I've tried. If Amity is so set on going through with this, we can't stop her."

Strip lay between them, trying to make himself as small as possible – a tall order with that wing of his. Getting caught between his father and his sister was like finding oneself between a pair of clapping rocks at the moment that they collided. His eyes flitted from one to the other. His younger brother and sister, disciplined into silence at the table while their elders spoke, stared at everyone with wide eyes. Their father's present state of unpredictability had left a mark on both of them as well.

"Sorry, Dad, my mind is made up, and the deal is signed," Amity pulled away completely. "The truck is coming at seven and I'm getting on."

Raymond Weathers sunk down in silence, and regarded Amity with a dull, bleary-eyed anger. Pain – and painkillers – surfaced in the set of his brow and mouth. It wasn't enough that his own life was falling apart. His family was, too.

As Amity turned and left, passing by Strip, he could see a tear descending down her side.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, "But with things like they are for us, I can't turn this down."

Outside, the clouds that had been gathering began to shed their first drops. By the time the semi pulled up in front of the house, there was a downpour.

_**TWO YEARS LATER: **_

Strip scowled slightly as his mother's favorite detailer worked on him. Gloria Weathers had dragged her son in for a three-hour appointment on the morning of September 12, 1969. His sixteenth year had brought him the freedom to travel the roads out of his home county, but it also brought him to the time of the ceremony at which his model would make its formal debut. The county branch of the Plymouth clan agency arranged this on an annual basis, for all the youngsters who could be classed as "new models". For a young car, this generally (but not always) took place during their teen years, though the statistical age spread could be wide in some instances. They could be anywhere between infancy and sixteen years of age, though the majority tended towards the older end of the scale.

It also meant being subject to an intense round of grooming to make the young cars presentable, and Strip was giving Shona, the detailer, no end of labor. The '61 Impala was now swabbing dirt out of the crannies of the boy's side view mirrors with a Q-tip while exchanging gossip with his waiting mother. Behind him, several other "new model" children waited their turn. He recognized his cousin and model-sister, Sybil Gamilan, amongst them. Her mother stayed at her side, never breaking contact, as she stared ahead with glassy, unseeing eyes. Sybil was blind, had been from the time she came into the world.

"Y'know, Bianca Jeffries just got engaged," Shona announced as she snapped up a fresh swab with a wiper, "You won't guess to who!"

"Do tell!" Gloria stood up on her shocks. "Who's the lucky man?"

"Clyde Barrett." The Impala ran another Q-tip into the join where mirror met metal. "He proposed last night, I hear. Right in front of her family after dinner."

"Oh, my…" Gloria sighed. "And Bianca is so beautiful, too. They'll be a great couple. Do you know when the wedding will be?" Beneath the joy, Strip could perceive an undertone of regret. _Too bad Amity passed up on him_, it seemed to say.

"Owww." Strip winced. The Q-tip had gone a little too deep into the most sensitive area of his side-views.

"Sorry, but it'll go a lot quicker if you stop squirming," Shona lightly slapped the youth's right fender, "You teenage boys are all the same, worse than babies!"

"Mom," Strip squinted as Shona started on his eyeshades, "Can I go see Amity after this?"

"We'll see, son." Gloria stared absently out the salon window, "Depends on how quick this goes, and like Shona said, you aren't helping very much. The sooner you stay still, the sooner we get out of here."

Strip grumbled in frustration. Why was all this junk necessary? As far as he was concerned, a wash would have been enough.

After this, it was off for a hot wax, then a fitting-out with new tires. Those were a gift from Amity, who was becoming a modest success on the mid-Atlantic circuit. This had made something of a difference to the Weathers family, who had fixed up their home and were now able to afford a better standard of living. However, Raymond Weathers had not improved in condition and was almost virtually housebound. Strip's relations with him had become somewhat strained, though his mother tried to insulate him from his father's increasingly rough edge. Home, increasingly, was not a place where he wanted to spend time any more.

Gloria, drained from the preparation grind, finally relented and allowed her son to head out to the Hi-Glo team headquarters, some twenty miles from their home town of Ebbing Valley. Nestled in the central North Carolina hills and surrounded by a 300-acre greenbelt, the campus-like property featured private oval and drag tracks and workshops, offices and living facilities for the team and support crew. It was the biggest such setup that Strip had ever seen, though he'd been told that the Dinoco facilities in Texas were three times its size.

Having called ahead before leaving, Strip had ascertained that Amity would be free to see him in the late afternoon. By now, the guard and receptionist were familiar with the "funny-looking" shark-nosed youth and passed him through to the back lounge where his older sister met him. Since the day Amity had left home for good, Strip had added another foot and a half to his length and an additional five hundred pounds to his frame, and his back wing had made good on its threat to shoot above his roof by three feet. Its supports canted inward slightly and curved where they joined the top, a characteristic also shared by others in the Weathers and Gamilan lines. Others he had seen at the ceremony's rehearsal had straighter wings. It was one of those things that seemed to vary with the individual.

"Strip!" Amity bounded into the room, "I haven't seen you in Chrysler knows how long! Is it just me or did you grow another six inches this summer?"

"I dunno, but Mom never stops complaining about the stretch marks in my paint and me outgrowing my pallet and always bumping into things." Strip laughed, "So it must be true."

"Well, you're lookin' good now," Amity inspected the new paint job Strip had received last week, courtesy of the county Plymouth division. "You know what your model name is, yet?"

"No, actually. They're keeping it a secret 'til tomorrow." Strip sighed, betraying a little impatience. "I hope it's something decent. It BETTER be. I'm so sick of being called "The Nameless Thing" at school. Or just "The Thing".

"They don't know anything," Amity reassured her brother. "They're just being jealous. You've got one monster of a block under your hood, and you can cut through the wind like a knife. But even more than that, you're my bro and I'd love you no matter what you had."

"You too, Sis." Strip gazed fondly at his sister. The stock mods had taken her headlights and everything else that was superfluous to racing, and in many ways she would be as much of a "cripple" in the outside world as her father. But Amity could still run, and run she did, like a hurricane when she was working full-out. As one of the few females in pro stock, she tolerated a good amount of ribbing, and her full share of dents and bruises from two seasons of competition. Nevertheless, she bore the number 29 and the deep-purple, gold and silver of Hy-Glo with confidence and good humor, and while she had to deal with rivalries like anyone else in racing, no one really disliked her, at least not much.

"You know," Amity said at last, stretching. " It's too nice a day to be stuck in a room. We could go out to the track. No one else's using it now."

"Really?" Strip jumped up on his shocks. He'd been here several times, but had never had access to that area before.

"No fooling! Besides, I want to see for myself how you've been coming along on the school team. Mom tells me they're going to have to build another room for your cups and things if you keep up like you're doing now. Besides, sometimes I just miss driving out with you guys."

"Sure, Amity. I'd love to." Strip eagerly followed her out the back door, to the chain-link gate that had never before opened to him.


	2. Chapter 2: Life is Cruel

They had built up speed slowly, and even then stayed at about the 110 MPH mark in deference to Strip's street tires. Amity was taking him on a follow-the-leader course around the half-mile oval that was considered one of the finest private training tracks in the country. He stayed about two car lengths off her rear bumper, learning to draft and how to do a proper single-car pass at racing speed. He had done some short-track racing on the school team, but they didn't allow close packing, bumping or running in excess of 100MPH. With side-views pinned against his body, Strip pursued his older sister for twenty laps before she called a break.

"Okay, your cornering's way better than it was even six months ago." Amity commented as he came up beside her. "You still gotta work on your braking tactics, though. Get used to tapping and blocking movements, though they don't allow those on the school tracks. It's a different world out here, let me tell you."

"Yeah, I guess." Strip exhaled as he slowed to a stop. He had seen Amity on TV the week before, at the Forrestell 300. She had swapped paint at least two times, with a fellow by the name of Raul Garcia. Garcia, by any account, wasn't known to be a bad actor on the track, but he was one of those who made no allowances for any other able-bodied competitor, male or female. Strip's mother had groused about it for days afterward, but Amity had apparently taken it in stride, and those abrasions were still healing.

He followed her back to the HQ building, with one last look back at the training track. "I tuned my suspension a bit, too. Coach at school says it took half a second off my laps."

"That's great! Most kids just add on to their engines but never pay attention to what happens with their chassis and shocks. How's it feeling now?

"A lot tighter," Strip bounced a little, "but I feel whatever's on that road that instant, instead of a second afterward."

"That'll make up for a lot if you play it right and keep to your lines," Amity nodded. "So how's everything else? Outside of racing, that is."

"Doing all right in school, Mrs. Creedy thinks I should go on to college. "You can do better than just racing!" she says." He did a deadly, nasal imitation of his eleventh-grade English teacher.

"Mind you, Strip, it would give you some options if it turned out that you couldn't continue in the sport for some reason," Amity held the gate for her brother and locked it behind him. "It happens to most everyone, sooner or later."

He grinned at Amity. "I'd rather it be later. All that talk about participles and gerunds bores the heck out of me."

"It doesn't have to be THAT." the Belvedere tossed her front as they passed back into the building's main hall. "You have a real head for figuring things out, and you do OK in sciences. Mom told me you really got into that introductory geology course they have at school, and you always did like going through caves and chasing after the strangest rocks. Do you still have the one with the hole worn through it?"

Strip responded with a gesture midway between a nod and a shrug. "Yeah, it's still on my shelf at home. I always wondered how long it'd take the water to wear through."

Amity turned as a forklift in Hy-Glo colors came in with mixed fuel drinks on a tray. "Oh, thank you Roddy."

The forklift set his light load down on a table and excused himself. "Not much for words, that one." Amity half-whispered as Roddy left. "I have a feeling he still misses the last guy who was racing for the team."

"Stan Copeland?" Strip's eyes darted around to see if anyone else was listening.

"Yeah, him." Amity glanced towards a portrait on the wall, with a tire tread across the corner in silver paint. "They still miss the poor guy. Tough enough for me going pro in the first place, but more so filling his tracks. We still see his widow now and then. They've been good to her, thank Chrysler. She's a really nice lady. Even afterwards she said that she'd support him and be there for him all over again, even knowing what it would lead to. He was lucky to have her."

Strip dipped his front soberly. Thoughts of death were usually far from him, as like most teenage boys, he ran with that feeling of being immortal and bulletproof. The racetrack might be his idea of heaven, but it was guarded by an angel, with a flaming sword poised over the asphalt that could bring down its greatest champions in split seconds. Everyone in the community knew and feared that avenging angel, though it had no face and no name.

As the afternoon waned, Strip eventually made his way back to the road home. The model presentation ceremony was due to start that night. His mother would have conniptions if he was even slightly late. It was still warm and pleasant enough, though getting stuck behind a trailer full of highly vocal tractors in a no-pass zone was not Strip's idea of a good time. He was already cutting it quite close when, just outside the town limits, he encountered the last two individuals he'd ever wanted to meet outside the school grounds.

Carl Bessinger, an already slightly rusty '68 Dodge pickup, stood foursquare across the turnoff into the town proper, his mouth twisted into shapes of malicious anticipation. Jerry Chasteen, a purple Road Runner, was close in genetic origins to Strip, but seemed to entertain a uniquely jealous loathing beneath his repeated cracks about Strip's shape. Jerry came up behind him, hoping to get the wing car sandwiched between him and his buddy.

"Well, look what the kit drug in!" Carl guffawed in his usual irritatingly dysphonic pattern. "Mr. Slick-and-Shiny, all ready for the ceremony!"

"Yeah, and Momma's gonna have my hood if I'm late." Strip stared the young truck in the eye. "So if you'll excuse me-- Ow!" He whirled about as Jerry bit him in the rear quarter. "Just what's your problem? It's not like I ever did anything to you!"

"Just looking at you every day hurts me, Shark-Boy." Jerry glared. "Not to mention HEARING you. Well, tonight we get our licks in."

Carl didn't have anything personal against Strip so much as he'd gladly follow Jerry to any target of opportunity, and at least half a dozen other boys could attest to his prowess for dealing out damage and pain. Strip had been in his share of fights, but tonight, he feared his mother's wrath as much as the intentions of this charming pair. He started to consider his options, eyes shifting to his right, where a meadow lay between him and another road leading south into the other end of town. He reversed as the chortling pickup advanced. Carl, mistaking his move for fear, continued to inch forward in jerks, gunning his engine repeatedly. Then, something occurred to Strip, and he turned his foretires as far left as they would go, sending his rear out towards Jerry, who was also forced to back up. Then, gathering himself, the young Plymouth sucked air and fuel into his block and let loose with a massive roar as his gathered frame uncoiled and leaped across the shallow ditch running along the road, into the grass of the meadow.

"Hey!" Jerry yelled. "Get him, Carl!" The pickup pursued eagerly, not bothering with the subtleties of jumping and heedless of the ditch's inclines tearing at his tailpipe. Strip was barrelling through the grass, sending up divots that pelted the hood and eyeshades of his would-be assailant. Clumps of dirt and mud also clung to his own body, marring the wax coat that had been so recently applied. He gathered himself one more time as the next ditch came up, a deeper one as the elevation of the south roadbed was higher and its shoulders eroded and strewn with loose gravel. He collected his frame to its maximum compression, added another surge of power to his rear wheels and let loose the potential energy thus gathered, heaving his front onto the pavement while his rear just barely cleared the shouder. Carl tried to power over the ditch, but got caught against the high shoulder which disintegrated beneath the pickup as he spun his tires. Now, only his curses followed Strip as the muscle car boy pulled onto solid purchase yet again and high-tailed it, figuratively and literally, off to the Plymouth regional HQ.

"Look at you!" Gloria Weathers was aghast. "I let you go for a few hours and look what you get into!"

A small crowd had gathered behind Strip's nonplussed mother as she remonstrated with him, varying degrees of SUCKS-TO-BE-YOU etched on their faces as this irresistable train wreck of a situation presented itself. Strip, nose-low in embarrassment, stared at the pavement ahead of him in the gathering dusk. Clumps of grassy sod and mud still adorned the youth, now half-dried on his body and tires. There was a scratch and dent where Jerry had bitten him. He had to agree that he was quite a sight.

"Carl and Jerry hassled me on the way home." Strip replied at last, his voice barely audible. "They woulda done a lot worse than that if I let'em."

"They're just bullies, they'd turn tail in a second if you really put tires to'em," Gloria snapped back. "No need to run through a mudhole and ruin your whole finish. You're gonna make a fine picture tonight, young man! What are we gonna do with you now?"

"Excuse me, ma'am." one of the Plymouth laison workers, a brown '67 Dart, interceded between mother and son. "We do have a spray washer out back, wouldn't take but a few minutes to get the dirt off him."

Gloria glanced at the Plymouth rep, then took another long stare at her son, then jerked her front towards the rear of the service center where the man had indicated. "Alright boy, get a move-on. They start in fifteen minutes."

The water was hard and cold – VERY cold. Strip gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyeshades shut as another blast hit him in the face. "Just hold still, son." the resident forklift admonished him as he shifted the water jet to Strip's front wheel well, causing the boy to almost jump straight up. "Guess you boys will be boys, eh?" Another frigid squirt to the rear and underneath, inspiring a startled yelp. "Always gettin' into a scrap, you muscle car kids. I'll be surprised if you hold together past the age of twenty." One more jet drove tiny water-needles into his skin to flick off a stubborn clump of dirt before it died out altogether, leaving the boy dripping and shivering in the evening chill.

"Into the air blowers now," the forklift waved towards a frame with dryers attached. "Don't want you to catch your death now, do we?"

Gratefully, Strip stood beneath the hot air and the heat lamps for five minutes before the PA system crackled. "All new models, please gather in the front lot before the stage. The opening ceremony will commence very shortly!"

By now, Gloria had gotten over her pique, and resignation had taken over. "Come on, son. Let's get you over there before anything else happens."


	3. Chapter 3 : Awkward Moments

There were several hundred youngsters gathered before the brightly festooned podium where the Plymouth reps were to soon to conduct the opening speeches and bestow upon the next generation their official model designations. The freshly washed Strip shifted his weight skittishly from side to side, oblivious to the complaints of his neighbors who bristled at flying water droplets hitting their new coats of wax. His mother rolled her eyes and put out a foretire to quiet him. "Hold still, you. It's like you never left kindergarten."

The muscle car sighed and settled back on his shocks. All he wanted was for this to be over with.

The marque's county chief, an older Deluxe model, grimaced slightly as his breath produced a screeching feedback from the mike. After adjustments, he finally addressed the assemblage of children, teens and adults. "I welcome you all to the 1970 model introductions, and congratulate all of you boys and girls on your entry into the society of the Plymouth marque. You come to us, this evening, as children. You will leave, tonight, as young men and women. Some of you are of new models that are yet to be formally named, and it must be an especially exciting time for you."

_Yeah, yeah, get it over with._ Strip groused to himself. Looking for some other focus, he shifted his eyes over to his bright-yellow cousin, Sybil. She stared ahead with clouded hazel eyes that would never admit light or color. He couldn't help wondering if this meant anything at all to her as they began to summon members of existing models to the stage to recieve their registration, certificates and whatever swag came with their new status, with the new models being held back for last. In the hall over to the side, several forklifts were setting up refreshments for the reception to follow. Strip's innards rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't taken in anything substantial since the early afternoon.

He would stay hungry for the next ninety minutes.

A strident fanfare from the bandstand snapped Strip back to attention. "Now, for the moment everyone's been looking forward to... We have several representatives of a new model-type here tonight, which up til now has been designated by a number, not a name. That is about to change." The Deluxe man motioned to the group of which Strip and Sybil were members. "All seven of you, please come forward."

Strip's mother added a push to get her son moving, and he fell in at the tail end, jerking his nose up and down and sidestepping in irritation. He fell into line just before the stage, not so much anticipating a change in his status as the prospect of finally getting something to eat afterwards. The words of the county division officer seemed to be an indistinct drone until at last, there was a pause. The youth lifted his eyes along with five of the others. Sybil shifted her front a bit to orient on the sound, but otherwise continued to stare ahead.

As for Strip, he was painfully aware of an itch on the leading edge of his left rear well, and twice aware of the mortification his mother would experience if he lifted a tread to scratch it, before all of those people! The sight of him on three tires with the remaining one flailing away, that would be one for the family photo album! Gritting his teeth, the boy steeled his resolve until the sensation ebbed away and the Deluxe spoke again.

"The seven of you don't know how lucky you are." He beamed down at them. "You are the first generation of a new model. That is indeed a rare honor."

_Not rare enough for me,_ Strip pursed his lips as he felt another inner rumble.

"There are only about 2,500 others like you on this continent, and in the world." The Deluxe droned on. "But it is already obvious that you are destined for great things. You were born with the bodies and engines to perform at the highest level, and I'm certain that some of you will soon be distinguishing yourselves on the track. I'm looking forward to seeing one of you win a Piston Cup someday, perhaps more than once."

_Yeah, fat chance. I haven't even done 150 yet._ Strip stifled a yawn. _I make a lot of noise, like Mom and Dad are always reminding me. That's about it. I'm not even up to Sis' level yet._

Strip's father, of course, was unable to attend, on account of his mobility problems. He would only experience it vicariously, through the accounts of others and from pictures to come later. Several relatives were poised on the sidelines with cameras at the ready, as well as the official photographer for the marque agency who had a much better vantage point. The seven youngsters froze and blinked as the first salvo of flash bulbs went off in their faces.

"But, let's get to the important part." The Deluxe motioned to an assistant, who brought forward a tray with a wax-sealed envelope. "I don't even know what's in here, folks. It was delivered by a special courier this morning, with strict orders to keep it sealed until the time of the ceremony. I don't know about you, but the suspense is killing me."

Strip absently pawed the ground, and sighed.

The MC flicked his antenna and hooked it into the open corner of the envelope, pinning it onto his hood as a wiper worked away at the seal. The assemblage waited silently as he extracted a folded sheet of creamy, gold-deckled parchment that fell open with a weighty snap. With antenna and wipers, he lifted the sheet to comfortable reading distance; his eyeshades raised a little, but he betrayed no other reaction before revealing the contents to everyone else.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to announce that our new model has been designated... as the 1970 Superbird!"

_Huh?_ Strip's sideviews flicked and swivelled in befuddlement. His mind had done a nasty trick with the name, filtering it through to his mind as "Stupidbird." _Oh, the jerks at school are gonna have a field day with that... _It felt... vaguely anticlimatic.

"C'mon up, kids." the chief's assistant motioned. "We have your certificates ready, and some accessory kits."

"Just a minute, son." the photographer held back Strip with a tire. "Let's get a few more pictures of you for the newsletter." The boy tried not to roll his eyes at this latest delay. "Let's get you squared up right over there." he motioned to a spot just before the center of the stage. Strip hoped that no mud flecks remained from that unfortunate encounter earlier. The additional attention was already awkward enough. Yet, he was a healthy-looking specimen, with a striking metallic-blue paint coat and the highest wing of the lot -- already becoming a magnificent young animal.

Nevertheless, Strip was not thinking about anything to do with the ceremony any more, even as the agency photographer finished with him and he climbed the ramp to recieve his formal papers and certificate. His tank was feeling like a bottomless pit now, demanding satiation. As soon as it was polite to do so, he made his way with the others towards the hall where the reception was beginning. The smell of fuel mix shakes, coolant gelatins and oily seedcake canapes was tickling his nose. Every second leading up to this was something akin to torture in this boy's mind.

"Cuz?" Sybil's voice broke into Strip's awareness as she came up beside him, whiskery curb-feelers waving. "You might as well go and get something. I can _hear_ you salivating! It's supposed to be the biggest night of your life and you've still got food on the brain. Why am I not surprised?"

"OK," Strip dared a furtive glance towards his mother, who was chatting with her sister and several other parents. He edged towards the table with the other bolder kids, his long, smooth nose working like that of a dog sniffing sausages on a table, locked in that moment or two of shared hesitation before daring to disturb a virgin buffet spread.

"Wouldja like a shake?" Another female voice made him freeze. He hadn't heard anything quite like it before. Behind the counter were a pair of lively blue eyes and a smile that seemed to light up the room. After those burned into Strip's senses, he took in the rest of the girl who had addressed him. She was a station wagon type, of Chrysler origins with maybe some Pontiac thrown in, more evident in the wheelbase than elsewhere. Sky-blue in coat, wearing a magnetic volunteer badge, no raving beauty on the surface, she nevertheless radiated a _happy-shiny-person_ aura and a genuine friendliness that left Strip almost stammering. "Uh-uh sure... whatcha got?"

"There's peach and banana and strawberry – the peach is really good, I tried it." the Chrysler girl replied. "Like one of those?"

"Yeah, I'll have one." Strip nodded and smiled, maybe a bit too much. He was aware of a heat building up on his fenders and across his hood and nose. "Sorry, just that... uh... I never saw you around before, that's all."

"I'm visiting from Charleston." the girl replied, much at ease. "My aunt is in charge of the catering and I'm kinda-sorta helping her out with stuff."

"OK..." Strip's eyes went back to the badge she was wearing, seeing her name printed out in marker in the white space. "Lynda?"

"Yup, that's my name right there." the girl laughed. "And yours?"

"They named me Benjamin, but for some reason that turned into "Strip." the muscle car answered. "Sorry if that's not really um – impressive or anything. I'm a Weathers too."

Lynda nodded. "We're all Chenoweths, my family. We're mostly from Charleston and Raleigh, and mostly Chryslers as you can see." She passed over a peach shake in a holder of magnetic rubber which adhered to the drinker's fender, with a straw protruding. "Here ya go."

"Ah-uh... thanks." Strip blushed again, as he moved out of the way of burgeoning lineup and realized that he was their main obstruction. He settled some thirty feet away and sipped at his drink, continuing to watch Lynda as she moved on to other guests. She seemed so... engaging, so interested, not indifferent like the other girls. She didn't seem to notice that he was an awkward, shark-faced boy with an engine that was too loud and a rear wing the size of an airplane's. Suddenly, food seemed secondary, and hunger a rather brutish concern.

As Strip half-listened to the droning chatter of his elders, recalling their model year ceremonies, that rear fender itch began to assert itself again. Gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore it as its intensity built up, but finally he slipped out to find a quiet, private spot in which to scratch himself. He certainly didn't want to do it in front of Lynda! Balancing his weight on his other three tires, the youth lifted his left rear and worked furiously at his well lip with the edge of his tread – ah, that was much better.

As he had gone to the "blank" side of the building, without windows or doors, Strip thought himself quite safe. The official photographer was otherwise engaged with formal portraits indoors, but a roving photojournalist from the regional paper was also attending, and she was out to get the more "candid" moments from this year's crop of new models. One of the newly-named Superbird kids taking a moment to relieve an itch was about as candid as it could possibly get.

_SNAP!_


End file.
